The Venom Series
by Audra Rose
Summary: Sam and Dean go goth at a vampire club and get in way too deep. Wincest. Chapters 4 out of 5 completed, previously published on live journal. I think I should mention that ch. 3 contains consent issues.
1. Beautiful

Part 1: Beautiful

Bad idea, Sam thinks, really bad idea. A handful of cheap Wal-mart make-up and Dean decides they're invisible; disguised enough to spend the night looking for the real blood-suckers among the wannabes because hey -- if you're immortal in LA of course you're going to hang in a fire-trap warehouse with a sound system they can hear in fucking Tahoe.

"Curt Wild."

Dean shouts it over the music, introducing himself to the blond guy in the open shirt who stares back like he isn't listening, and who the hell could hear anything over the bass line anyway? Sam rubs his eyes.

The whole place is just smoke and strobe lights and noise that's about to punch a hole through Sam's head, and now Dean is leaning closer to the guy who still isn't listening, though he's looking at Dean's mouth. Sam's _not_ looking at Dean's mouth; he's been not looking at Dean's mouth since Dean stepped out of the bathroom in leather and denim and fucking L'oreal.

Some disguise, Sam thinks. Not invisible, never invisible; 8 bucks worth of eyeliner and now everyone _everything_ in this place can see what Dean's spent his whole life trying to hide. Sam never understood before now that some curses you're born with, and Dean's is green-gold eyes and their mother's cheekbones so he uses metal bands and bravado to turn it into a dare.

_go on, say it, just say it, give me a reason_

The guy's talking now, and Dean is listening, ignoring the ones who stare but Sam can see them, feel them; all of them watching, _wanting_ and as far as he's concerned the night creatures can have this place. He needs Dean out of here, away from circling darkness Sam can sense pressing up against his brother and taunting him with cold whispers Dean can't hear.

_beautiful one_

"What the fuck, Sammy?"

Dean's arm is hard muscle beneath Sam's fingers, but the tug caught him off guard and now Dean has to follow or he'll stumble. Almost to the door, almost there, but then Dean stops, angry tension pulsing under Sam's hand and there's a wall, a dark corner where maybe he can make Dean listen. Pushes Dean's back against the concrete so Sam can shield him, slide in close, and --

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Don't you feel them?" Sam hisses, lips almost touching Dean's cheek. "All around us?"

Dean looks over Sam's shoulder, wary and alarmed, but Sam knows that Dean doesn't see dead eyes in the darkness, can't feel them the way Sam does. Dean's hands on Sam's arms clench hard. Dean's never been afraid of bruising him and now he's angry, telling Sam they need to make their move.

"No, you need to leave. Now." Supposed to be firm, but it comes out pleading and Dean looks up with kohl-circled eyes and Sam is lost. He's shaking now with fear and worry and something else, something buried deep and secret that makes him want what _they_ want.

"They're watching, Dean, oh god, they've been watching, and they don't want to let you go. Please," he whispers. Begs. Listen to me look at me touch me _god_ and now Sam can't stop himself. The pad of his thumb is rough over the deep curve of Dean's lower lip, smearing the edge of color because nothing should be perfect, especially not here. He watches Dean's eyelids blink and stutter, finally staying closed as Sam rubs the sticky gloss into his lips.

"Sammy," whispered and broken through a mouth that's still too red and bruised-looking under cheap glittery lip gloss. Maybe Sam can suck away the sweetness, so he leans in, tastes fake peaches and the cigarette Dean smoked in the parking lot; uses his teeth and hears jealous whispers flutter against his mind.

_want him want him_

"Mine," he tells the ones watching, growling it in a low voice that makes Dean moan. He pushes his hips forward into Dean, rocking into him slow and even, just once, just enough to make his claim, but it's Dean who's lost now, one hand hard on Sam's hip and the other clenched tight in Sam's hair. And Dean just breaks, shoving their mouths together and it turns out the inside of Dean's mouth doesn't taste like peaches -- just slick vodka and lime and Sam wants to lick it all away while Dean shoves his thigh between Sam's legs.

So good, so _good_, perfect hard place to rock against, and Sam presses biting kisses over Dean's neck, knowing the glittery stuff will look beautiful on Dean's throat, too.

"Jesus, Sammy, fuck --" Words that go straight to his cock and no way he's going to last like this but he needs Dean over the edge with him. Hard ridge under Sam's hands and now Dean is swearing, praying maybe; leaving bruises on Sam's shoulders and moaning into his mouth before coming, hard and hot against his palm.

Then suddenly it's Dean's hand on Sam's body, surrounding him, just _taking_ him and Dean doesn't let up until Sam is shaking with the aftershocks. At least Dean waits until Sam can see again before shoving him away.

Dean's hand is trembling, reaching up to swipe at his red-bitten lips. When he looks up Sam can see that the bruises have reached his eyes now. Anger and hurt and damage, probably, but Sam won't think about that now because the ones watching them are amused; maybe amused enough to let them go.

"Come on." Sam pushes Dean ahead of him through dark, silent laughter and out into the night. "Don't look back."

End part 1: Beautiful


	2. Broken

Worst fucking idea iever/i. Dean's falling through the motel room door and hitting the lights almost before he can stand. Ordinarily, he'd have pushed Sam through the door ahead of him, but he can't touch Sam now; not after he reached back once and felt Sam's shoulders shaking under his jacket. If he closes his eyes he can still feel Sam shoving him out of the club, can feel Sam's hand between his shoulder-blades, 

_between his --_

No. Just no.

He bolts the door after Sam stumbles through it; leans on the dresser and watches his brother sit on the edge of the bed, hunched forward with his hands clasped to keep them steady and looking at the ugly orange carpet like it might open up and swallow them. Who knows? Maybe that's next. Silent and still and Dean hates when Sam is like this; hates when Sam doesn't even try to use words to fix things and suddenly it's so easy to remember how angry he is.

"Sam-- what the _hell_-- " The words catch on his rage, but it isn't just anger rushing red behind his eyes and roaring so loud in his head that he almost misses Sam's voice.

"Wanted you." Words to make him stop short; make him sick and hopeless and needing all at the same time.

Deep breath. "What did you say?"

"Those things. At the club. Wanted to...keep you." Sam's talking to the floor, and for a minute Dean gets lost staring at the shadows hiding Sam's expression, the bruise at the corner of his mouth.

_know what he tastes like_

God.

"Why?" he asks at last, and his voice never sounds like this, so scared like this, so he clears his throat and says, "Why the fuck would they want to keep me, Sam?"

Harsh, knowing look from Sam then, from eyes made older and harder by dark pencil scrubbed beneath them, and his voice sounds older, too.

"To look at you. Touch you. And --"

Dean has to look away then, and ends up catching his own reflection in the mirror over the dresser. Unrecognizable under sticky glitter and smeared eyeliner and it doesn't make him look older -- it makes him look -- Sam's _wrong_ but --

_Vivid memory -- nine years old and learning to fire a gun; playing army with real weapons. It's too loud at the firing range, too cold, but he can play it tough, just like the big kids so dad will be proud. Then a man in flannel puts callused fingers hard beneath his chin and turns his face up to the weak sunlight._

_Granite eyes and a dry voice, "You_ better _teach this one to fight, John."_

_Laughter all around and Dean is embarrassed, not even realizing it's a prophecy for his whole god-damned life. _

"We need to go back," he tells Sam. "Now that we know what we're up against."

Sam doesn't get up, though, just swallows hard. "We can't. There -- there are too many of them. They're too strong, and the voices -- God, Dean, look what happened." He looks up when Dean turns to face him and his voice changes, turns anxious. "Hey -- it was just the voices. That's why we -- It was the voices, that's all." Dean can hear the rest of the argument even when Sam stops talking. Not my fault. Not yours.

Dean wishes he could believe that. Wishes he could lie.

"No voices."

"No --"

"I didn't hear any fucking voices, Sam. You see dead people, not me."

"Then why did you...?" For the first time Sam looks confused, lost like Dean feels inside; just his little brother under the harsh make-up. He's looking at Dean for reassurance, just like he always does and Dean can see faint, dry lines threading down his cheeks, like earlier he'd been sweating, bleeding, icrying/i -- fuck.

"No voices." Just you.

Dean sees understanding hit and then Sam is moving, surging up off the bed toward him. Dean tenses, turns his head. They've already broken everything to pieces so there's no need to be careful; maybe if he lets Sam take a swing at him --

Hands cupping his face and Sam's mouth is harder than it was in the club; messy and raw and for just a second the weirdest thing about this is having to tilt his head up to be kissed.

_be careful with your little brother_

Well, Sam hasn't been little in _years_ and suddenly Dean is on the bed, dizzy from the change in position. The whole world is Sam -- lean, hard body pressing him into the mattress, warm hands looking for skin and Sam's mouth -- oh jesus kissing him, just _kissing him_ and just like that Dean is almost gone.

Can't do this. The reasons why are scattering away along with Dean's control but Dean knows they can't do this; not again, not if they want to come out whole on the other side. He turns his head so Sam's mouth scrapes over his jaw, his throat.

"Sam." Breathless against Sam's temple and he can't help it, has to press his lips against that soft skin, just for a second. "Sam, come on, we can't --"

Sam's body tightens over his and the words just seem to make Sam more urgent. He feels the scrape of Sam's teeth over his collarbone, the heat of Sam's breath on his neck.

"Please, Dean, just let me --" and the rough sound of Sam's voice would be enough to make him moan, even if Sam weren't pushing his hands up beneath Dean's shirt, shoving it up so he can touch.

"Please," Sam says again, leaning down to lick, to bite softly, and Dean hasn't heard such grief in his brother's voice since the night Sam lost Jess and Dean got Sam back, and really, how fucked up is that?

But there's no stopping now, not when Sam needs him, is leaning up to kiss him again.

_take care of your little brother_

And that's something Dean knows he can do. He can push his fingers up into the softness of Sam's hair; he can gentle the kiss, deepen it until he feels Sam shudder. He can roll them both so Sam is under him, long body and slender muscles beneath his chest, his hips. Then he can move, rocking into the warmth between them; listening to the soft, broken sound Sam makes as he reaches up to hold Dean tight, tight.

"Hey -- it's okay, Sam," he whispers against Sam's mouth; Sam's beautiful, soft mouth that's just waiting for him to taste and Dean needs this _so_ badly. Wet and slow and so good that Dean could almost be satisfied just kissing like this, just making out on the bed but Sam's getting insistent, pushing at their clothes, trying to move enough leather and cotton out of the way so they can be skin to skin. Every new place he touches just makes Dean want more, as long as he doesn't have to stop kissing Sam.

Only one moment breaks the surreality; the moment Dean reaches down and feels the buttons of Sam's jeans beneath his fingertips, the hardness beneath. _can't. can't do this_ he thinks, but Sam feels the jolt go through Dean's body and grabs Dean's hand, presses it flat so they are both rubbing Sam through his jeans. Way hotter than it should be, enough to fragment any control Dean has left and he almost tears the buttons open and shoves the jeans down Sam's thighs.

Somehow side by side, facing each other on the bed, hands tangling as they touch each other and everything is hot and slick and frantic. Doesn't know who comes first, just sinks his face into Sam's shoulder and shudders his way through it, waits for the world to reassemble itself.

Almost by agreement they move apart, breathing hard and not touching but Sam is close enough that Dean can feel the heat from his body in the cool air. His brother. His lover. Dean thinks that it might be possible to fuck things up even more but he can't imagine how.

"We need to go back there," Sam says, and Dean doesn't even open his eyes.

"You changed your mind."

"No choice." Dean feels the ghost of a touch drift over his profile, brushing the bridge of his nose, his lips. He turns sharply to look at Sam, but it's like Sam never moved, lying there and staring at the ceiling.

"What do you mean?"

"What if they come after you?"

End


	3. Bound

Shouldn't be here, Sam thinks, shouldn't be here at all, parked near empty warehouses and dark alleys he wouldn't want to walk though in the _daytime_. It would have been so easy to take off, just drive up the coast and put 500 miles between Dean and those things in the club before nightfall, but no, never the goddamned easy way out for his brother. Should have known he'd end up back outside the club with the sun going down behind him, sitting next to Dean in the front seat and feeling twitchy with exhaustion and fear.

The neon over the doorway across the street flickers into life.

_Venom_.

"They're not even trying to hide it, are they?" Dean asks.

Sam pretends he doesn't hear and digs in the pocket of his long leather coat for the eyeliner. There's still enough light to see so he tips the rearview mirror toward his face as Dean turns away, shifting uncomfortably.

Dean can bitch all he wants about having to shred his vintage Black Sabbath t-shirt and put more of "that black shit" on his face, but if they're really going to do this then Sam wants this part of it, too. Needs it. The things lurking in the shadows of the club scare him cold, but with the make-up on his face he looks older, tougher, like someone who absolutely should not be fucked with. Long leather coat and massive boots making him even taller, broader, and suddenly he can feel it... _power_. Just that, thudding though his veins in time with the bass line that pulses out of the club every time someone slips through the door.

He turns to hand Dean the kohl-pencil and finds that Dean still won't look at him, gaze skating away like it has all day. Dean snatches the pencil away carefully, so their fingers don't touch and Sam sighs and looks back at the doorway of the club.

"We're going to go in, find out where they sleep during the day, and get out. That's all," Dean says.

Sam isn't listening because Dean's said it twice in the last half hour and all he can think about is that he should have crawled into bed with Dean last night. He should have gone straight from the shower to the bed where Dean was pretending to sleep; ignored the tense wall of Dean's shoulders trying to shut him out and covered Dean's skin with his body. Should have made Dean wake up this morning with his cock in Sam's mouth.

See how distant he could act then.

Bastard.

"Let's go," Dean says, finally meeting Sam's eyes for the first time all day. Sam blinks, and then suddenly he's choking with laughter. For a second Dean looks murderous and then turns abruptly and opens his car door.

"Dean, wait," Sam says, not sure how to tell him that the kohl he's scrubbed under his eyes makes him look like some kind of deranged football player. Dean faces him, impatient and glaring, and Sam reaches out.

"Cut it out, Sam," Dean mutters, turning his face.

"Dude, you need to --" Sam says, trying again, but Dean knocks his hand away.

"Back off! What's wrong with you?", and he sounds so much like their father that Sam wants to laugh but is afraid it'll come out a half-hysterical giggle.

"You just need to --"

"Need to _what_, already?"

"_Blend_, okay? Just let me fix it," Sam tells him, stifling his grin, and catches Dean's face in his hands. And holy shit, the planets must be aligned, because Dean stays still and lets Sam smear the lines and blur the edges, his skin warm and smooth beneath Sam's fingertips. Dean's face changes with the shadows, and he glares off somewhere over Sam's shoulder; angry, sullen --

_beautiful_--

and Sam wonders if Dean knows what he looks like, knows what it does to Sam. Then Dean meets his eyes and it's all there for Sam to read -- fear and embarrassment and ohgod, hurt; cutting down so deep that Sam can't touch it. Yeah, Dean knows exactly what he looks like, exactly what Sam feels, and he hates it.

I'm sorry, Sam thinks, feeling numb, but the words stick in his throat and Dean pulls out of his grasp.

"Let's go."

-----

He feels it as soon as they walk through the door; dark curiosity running fast and cool through the shadows. The huge space is just grinding music and strobing lights that do nothing to cut through the darkness surrounding them, so Sam stares into the shifting crowd, into the mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor where cold eyes meet his and disappear before he can see who - what - they belong to. He feels the weight of those eyes push against him and he shakes his head.

"What is it?" Dean shouts into his ear.

"They've noticed us," Sam tells him, distracted by the hiss of voices he can almost hear, and feels Dean tense beside him.

"That was fast," Dean says, looking angry about it, and Sam can't believe he didn't know that they'd be waiting. For Dean.

"I think it's okay, though," Sam says, and turns his head to talk to his brother. "For now, anyway. They're curious." Sam's lips brush against the edge of Dean's ear and the hiss becomes a roar -- _hunger_ -- washing over him, through him, centering on his brother beside him and he almost stumbles. "Interested," he adds, through a throat gone suddenly dry.

"That's great," Dean is saying, from somewhere far away, while Sam watches his mouth form the words. "I'm sorry, but I don't trust them."

Shouldn't trust me, either, Sam thinks; idle thought that scatters away when he looks at the torn places on Dean's shirt where his skin shows through. Strange, wary look from Dean and then he's turning, moving further into the club. Sam follows by rote, pushing past moving bodies that brush up against them, heat and skin and sweat. Dean's ahead of him, weaving through the crowd almost faster than Sam can follow. He can still see Dean, though, and he can see the way they turn to look at him, the way they trail soft touches over his body as he passes. Elegant fingers drifting over his shoulders and his throat, sliding across the leather on his hips and why the hell can't Dean tell that it's deliberate?

"Hey, Dean –"

He reaches out to put a hand on Dean's shoulder, stops his forward movement and _oh_ -- warm skin beneath the cloth, an immediate jolt rushing through his body, from Dean, from them, and

_touch him touch him touch him_

and yes, that's what he wants, has _always_ wanted, so he steps up close against his brother, slips his arms around Dean's waist, and drags him close. Dean's back colliding with his chest, and god, who knew they'd fit together like this, so perfectly? When he bends his head his lips brush the skin behind Dean's ear and he can feel the sharp point of Dean's jaw against his mouth; has to lick a little, just to taste…

Dean flinches, tenses in his arms, and then Sam's staring into Dean's face, close and angry.

"What. The fuck. Are you doing?" Sam blinks at him, the outrage in Dean's eyes breaking through the haze and he can barely answer.

"They like it when we touch each other," Sam says, stuttering over the words.

Dean stares, and then suddenly he's moving, turning in Sam's arms to twist a hand into Sam's hair so hard it hurts.

"Sam, you goddamn listen to me," Dean says, lips practically touching Sam's, eyes almost closed so that Sam can see the thick fringe of his eyelashes splayed across the shadow. "Get your head back in the game and go use the _force_ or whatever the hell it is you do and find out what we need to know. _Now_."

Except it isn't anything like now because Dean's pulling Sam's head down until their mouths crush together, teeth and tongues and bruised lips, and Sam gets a taste of copper that seems to make the walls tremble. He wants to fall into this, right here, _rightfuckingnow_, but Dean's already gone, pulling out of Sam's arms and diving into the crowd, disappearing before Sam can even think.

He should be worried, probably, should be scared as fuck, but what he's feeling doesn't allow for it. It's the power again, the excitement that whirls around and carries him with it, like ex, maybe; like all the shit he never did, never tried, because Sam doesn't do things like that, though right now he can't think why. Hypnotic movements to grinding music all around him and he finds himself drawn out to the dance floor, moving to rhythms he hears in his head.

The leather coat slips from his shoulders to fall from his hands, and the humid air feels cool on his arms, bare where he's torn the sleeves off his black shirt. Cool fingers over his biceps, trailing under the hem of his shirt to brush his skin, skimming over the dark denim on his thighs. He could give in so easily...

It's then he realizes that they know exactly what information he's looking for, exactly why he wants it, and they will _never_ let him have it.

So why the fuck is he still walking around and not a bloodstain in the parking lot? Why --

_know what you are_

Words clear as the daylight he probably won't see again, words to make Sam freeze in place and let the crowd push him around.

_what am I?_

He forms the words before he can stop himself and feels disbelief come back at him. Something else, too. Something that feels a lot like fear.

_What am I_, he asks again, desperate, because here, finally, he might find out why he dreams in prophecy and moves things with his mind and oh, yeah, can fucking talk to vampires in his head.

_tell you_

A taunting promise, and god, he can almost _see hear touch_ the answer, held just out of reach…

_Just give him to us._

Fuck. Dean.

"Where is he?" Spoken out loud as he turns in a circle, searching, and panic makes him shaky. "What did you do?"

Desire, hunger, crashing against his mind and Sam sees Dean as _they_ see him, sees everything they want to do to him, and god, it makes Sam so _hard_. Fear and need he can taste and it draws him, makes him push through the crowd, feeling writhing bodies stumble to get out of his way.

He doesn't know how he finds the room, hidden in the maze of hallways at the back where the music is muted to a low throb. Almost completely dark but he can see chain link fence lining the walls, crush of bodies in leather and chains, cuffs and masks, things he never knew to imagine, and there –- thank god, Dean -- leaning back against the wall, head bent and arms bound behind him and for Sam there may as well be no one else in the room.

Torn shirt framing his shoulders and soft leather falling off his hips, long line of perfect skin and muscle Sam wants to run his hands over and for one crazy second Sam wishes they had finished undressing him. God. What the fuck is wrong with him? He pushes the thought away and calls out Dean's name into dead air, pushing though clinging hands and stroking fingers.

Maybe Dean can hear him because he raises his head, all mouth and cheekbones and dazed eyes. Even from across the room Sam can see his lips are swollen

_bitten_

like someone had just stopped kissing him, and in one cold-bright moment of rage Sam decides that these things are going to _die_ tonight for touching him.

The thought alone seems to be enough to make them scatter, slender figures darting away as he rushes to his brother so by the time he gets to Dean there's space around them. Sam steps close, leans their foreheads together, blocks out everything else so it's just the two of them, just like always.

Breathless silence now, just waiting, where he's gotten used to noise inside his mind.

"You hurt?" Whispered into the space between their lips. Dean's eyes are closed again, black kohl making them looked bruised, and Dean makes a slight motion with his head.

"No." Stops. "I don't think so."

Sam doesn't believe him so he runs his hands over Dean's arms, his chest; does it again because he's wanted to do it forever, even if he only realized it just now. Smooth over hard and he loves

_they love_

the way his hands look on Dean's skin. Dean makes a sound when Sam's palms brush over his nipples, makes another when Sam uses his fingertips to make one hard.

"Oh, fuck. Sam." Dean takes a breath that catches in his throat. "What are you doing?"

"Wanted to touch you all day," Sam says softly, watching what his fingers can do to Dean's body. He traces a perfect circle that makes Dean shiver, that makes him pull against the binding on his wrists. "And you wouldn't let me. Why?"

"They're doing this to you," Dean says, trying to sound like dad giving orders, but it doesn't work. "Come on, just get us out of here."

"You wanted me to touch you, though," Sam tells him, fascinated by the sight of his own fingers trailing down the smooth lines of Dean's body, hard chest and muscled stomach. "You wanted to touch me, too. Kiss me." Soft whisper in Dean's ear. "Fuck me."

Dean shakes his head, maybe at the words or at Sam's hands tugging the leather lower on his hips. Sam runs the backs of his fingers over the taut skin he can see now, Dean's eyes on Sam's hands like he's hypnotized. Follows them down, down, over the front of Dean's pants and Sam can feel the shape of him through the soft leather. They both watch as Sam finds the tip of Dean's cock and makes slow circles with his thumb.

"I want to put my mouth here," he whispers.

"Jesus, Sam! Look," Dean swallows, and his voice sounds used, a little desperate, "Okay, you're right, I want that, too. Want you, just – just _not here_."

Something there he should listen to but he can smell Dean's skin, soap and sweet, clean sweat,

_blood_

and rising musk that makes his mouth water. The hard points of Dean's hips fit into his palms as he leans down, licks Dean's lips until they open, and then ohgod, finally – kissing Dean, soft lips and teasing tongue and he knows just what to do to make Dean kiss him back. Soft sighs surround him, like they can feel how good this is, how much Sam wants him.

Dean is talking again; Sam can feel the vibration against his lips as he kisses down Dean's throat, _come on, sam, let me go_, and _you don't want to do this,_ words that don't make any sense the way Dean's body is arching toward him so he bites along Dean's collar-bone to make him gasp. Licking at Dean's nipples makes him moan, biting them makes him squirm, makes him pull against the restraints until Sam worries he's going to hurt himself so he puts his hands around Dean's twisting wrists, stills Dean's frantic hands. Feels leather wound around Dean's wrists, too, pulled tight and threaded through a metal buckle and the cold chain-link behind them.

Dean's belt. No question. Sam's going to kill them all.

Later.

He drops down, and it's so much easier to do this on his knees, soothe the raw skin around Dean's wrists with his fingers, and whisper against Dean's chest, heaving like this is a race.

"This will be so good, I promise," he tells his brother, nuzzling the damp skin, touching his tongue to the flat curves of Dean's navel, moaning when Dean makes a brief, aborted thrust. His hands drift from Dean's wrists to his ass, soft leather warm as skin and Sam just slides his palms over, curls his fingers under the band and pulls, feeling the button give and the cloth slide down Dean's skin.

"Oh, Jesus, Sam, this is so fucked up," Dean says, dropping his head back against the metal fence. "Not like this, Sam, okay? Not like -- fuck."

Dean hunches forward when Sam traces the low curve of muscle beneath his hipbone, follows the line of it with his tongue until he feels a slick slide against his cheek, musky scent where the leather's pulled down low. Dean's begging him now, promising bed and darkness, just the two of them, "Anything, Sammy, anything you want, just don't-" but Dean's voice shatters when he touches his lips to the tip.

"Oh, god." Something broken in Dean's voice now. "Okay, Sam. Okay. Just – just let me touch you."

Something breaks in Sam, too, and he reaches back, wrenching the buckle free. He doesn't wait, just unzips and peels the leather down Dean's thighs to the floor and God – _Dean_ – flushed and hard, moisture beading at the tip that he needs to taste. Slick and salt and Dean's helpless sounds and he can't stop, just pulls Dean into him – full and hot and _yes_ – Sam needs this. He grasps Dean's hips like he might try to get away and feels Dean stagger, feels him hitch helplessly beneath his hands.

_drink_

God, yes. Sam slides his hands around to cup hard muscle and take him deep, open mouth and stroking tongue and he didn't know he could do this but it's amazing – how it feels and what it does to Dean. No words now, just moans and movement that Sam stills with hands tight enough to mark.

Dean's hands are in his hair, clumsily grasping for purchase and sliding free – maybe Sam would worry if he weren't so hard he can't think anymore -- nothing but _pleasepleaseplease_, over and over, willing Dean to lose control, _years_ of control. Looking up he sees Dean staring down at him, wild and lost until the moment Sam swallows.

Sam gets just a glimpse of Dean's throat when he arches and tilts his head back, and then Sam has to close his eyes and just take it. Ragged thrusts, fingers brutal on his neck and shoulders and then Dean frozen above him, movement stuttering to a stop as Dean pulses over and over in Sam's mouth.

Licks and kisses as Dean comes down, and Sam has just enough brain function left to catch him when his knees buckle – sprawling across Sam's lap with his forehead against Sam's neck. Dean's breath against his throat is a tease as powerful as the solid weight of Dean's body on his aching cock, trapped between them beneath too many layers of cloth. Sam can't help but push up into that weight and press his mouth to Dean's damp temple, tasting the heat there.

Then suddenly Dean is staring at him, his expression torn open and dark with rage, and Sam has no time to wonder before Dean is kissing him, ruthless and hard as his hands scrabble between them, tearing at buttons and cloth. The first touch of Dean's hand, bare and hot, makes him moan around Dean's tongue, practically makes him sob.

"Can I do this to you? What you did to me?" Dean says against his jaw between biting kisses that stab shocks down his body, so all he can do is push up helplessly into Dean's fist. "Make you crazy?" Dean whispers. "Make you come?"

The only answer to that is to shove his mouth against Dean's, bruise him, crush him, and thrust hard until the world whites out and then somehow they're on the floor, tangled in clothes and each other like they'll never be able to move apart again.

_Yes_, the voices whisper. _Yes_.

----------

The voices are gone.

Wait.

Not gone. Silent. Drifting and aimless.

Sated.

"Dean?" It's like talking through a throat full of broken glass.

"Yeah, who else?" Weary voice, muffled by Sam's shoulder.

Dean's already shifting off of him, pulling back, but Sam isn't ready to let him go and tightens his arms instinctively. "You okay?" he asks.

Dean lifts his face from Sam's shoulder, messy hair, bruised lips and smeared kohl, completely fuckable except for his eyes.

Oh, God.

There's nothing in Dean's cold stare that he can even begin to deal with, so he looks away and sees they aren't the only ones on the floor. Bodies crumpled around them, arms stretched out toward them as if trying to touch. As he stares, one pale hand flexes.

"I think we better get the fuck out of here," Dean says, evenly. "Don't you?"

Yeah, leaving's probably a really good idea.

He lets Dean go and stands somehow, makes his gaze skate away from Dean's body as Dean gets dressed. The rags of Dean's shirt hit him in the side of the head and he grabs for it before it hits the floor.

"Clean yourself up," Dean says in a quiet voice that's far worse than anger so Sam just does it, buttons up as he nervously watches the sprawled bodies around them begin to move. Dean grabs Sam's arm, bruising-hard, and pushes him toward the door.

"Go."

Sam stumbles through the maze of hallways, following Dean until they've almost reached the main part of the club. Sam can see lights and movement up ahead and the music's getting more intense, but Dean stops him at a fire door hidden in an alcove, and Sam wonders how Dean even found it.

Dean shoves the door open but Sam stops at the threshold, trying to clear his head, to remember why they came in here in the first place. "Wait."

"What now?"

Something. Something important.

"We don't know where they sleep," Sam says, trying to break through Dean's indifference.

"I do," Dean says.

That throws him for a second. "How…?"

"Does it matter? I know. We're out of here." Sam grabs his arms when he turns to go.

"Look, they know things. Things about me. What I can do."

Sam watches Dean's cold mask shatter.

"So you want to stay here and party? Tie me up again? Maybe fuck me for your new friends?"

Sam's not sure which hurts more, the sarcasm or the pain in Dean's voice. "I'm going to kill them all," he whispers. "They're going to die in pain and blood and fire, I swear it. But, Dean." He has to make his brother understand. "This might be the only chance I have to get some answers."

"Christ, Sam." Dean looks away, and reaches up to rub a bruise on his neck that Sam doesn't remember making. Then his face changes and he rubs harder. "What the hell did you do to me?" he asks.

"I didn't –" Sam starts, stepping closer to look.

I didn't do that, Sam wants to say, but he can't. Can't speak, can't move, can't breathe – can only stare at the blood.

On Dean's fingertips. And on the puncture wounds at the base of Dean's neck.

End


	4. Bitten

Not happening, Sam thinks. _None_ of this is happening. He grabs Dean and drags him through the open fire door into the harsh light of the alley, watches his hands shake as he turns Dean's face away and looks at the bruises all along the curve of Dean's throat, kiss-bites he made with his teeth and his lips. The angry blue bruises make him sick and make him ache but that's nothing, _nothing_ compared to the clawing panic he feels at the sight of the two tiny punctures, freshly made, marring the base of Dean's neck.

"Oh, shit," Sam whispers, "Oh, shit, why didn't you tell me?" Sam's breath is coming shallow and harsh, making him dizzy, because there's blood. Lots of blood, _Dean's_ blood, wet against his fingertips and slicking down in a thin trail over his shoulder to pool dark and shiny in the hollow of his collarbone. Sam just stares at it and feels his breath spiral out, wonders if he'll be able to take another.

"What is it? What are you talking about?" Dean looks angry now, angry and scared and like he might hit Sam if he doesn't stop digging his fingers into Dean's shoulders.

"Those – one of those _things_ bit you, and you didn't say anything!"

Dean looks confused but Sam just grips harder and tries to remember the details in Dad's book. Pages of notes on vampires, the ways they kill and the ways they die; whole paragraphs on venom and blood-poison and how they turn the ones they want but not one fucking word on what to do if you're bitten that Sam can remember. He shakes Dean hard.

"Did you drink?" It's the only thing he can think to ask, the only thing that matters at this point, because if he didn't drink, there might be a chance...

"The bastards bit me?" Dean asks, still trying to catch up, and the shocked outrage on Dean's face makes Sam want to laugh or scream or hit him so he bends closer and tries to make Dean meet his eyes.

"Dean, this is pretty fucking important – did you drink?"

Dean touches the wound on his neck, rubs at it with the heel of his hand and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it.

"I think I had a beer…"

"Not – oh, for god's sake, Dean, blood! Did you drink any _blood_?"

Sam watches Dean's face go pale behind the dark kohl on his face, and he looks like he feels a little sick.

"I don't – I don't know…" he says.

"You don't _know_? What the hell does that mean?"

Dean looks up at Sam, furious now and breaking Sam's grip on his shoulders, not even wincing when Sam's jagged nails drag over his skin, leaving more wounds that Sam can take credit for.

"It means what I said -- I don't know. I don't remember!" He swipes his hand over his lips, smearing them with blood and Sam can almost see him forcing the fear down so he can think. "Just – just give me a minute…"

Sam rubs his eyes and tries to think, too, but it's impossible, not when he feels like this. He's been here before, felt this before, right after Jess died, remembers standing there in the street just like he is now with his nerves strung out to the jittery edge where everything goes bright and brilliant. If he stays here any longer he might just ride on the vibrations until he shatters.

"I remember the crowd," Dean says, finally. "I remember leaving you on the dance floor. Then – fuck, I don't know, I guess the next thing I remember is you –" Dean stops, everything stops, and there it is, right there between them.

_Me_ , Sam thinks. You remember me.

_kissing_

_touching, teasing, sucking –_

_sam, let me _go –

God.

Sam is going to be sick. Dean looks away.

"I don't know if I drank," he says, and Sam can barely hear him. "Hell, I don't even remember being bitten." Subdued now, lost, like with the anger gone he's got nothing to hold onto, and Sam feels something inside twist into knots.

It's going to be okay, Sam starts to say, I'll make it okay – he's ready to lie to make Dean stop looking like this, but laughter behind him, low and speculative, closes his throat and sends a cold shiver across the nape of his neck.

When he turns there are three of them, slim gothlets in black and silver with studded lips and eyebrows, slipping out the door to stare at him, at Dean.

"Wannabes," Sam says, just loud enough for Dean to hear.

"Acolytes," Dean whispers, and Sam isn't sure who Dean is talking to.

And maybe they are just kids playing dress-up, Sam thinks, but there's threat in the way they stand, the way they stare, and he starts to think that maybe it's a bad idea to be hanging out in the alley behind the club, especially with Dean in nothing but leather pants and smeared eyeliner, looking like sex and secrets.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Sam asks them, growling it out and ignoring Dean's flinch. More laughter, and a girl with hair that looks almost purple in the light over the doorway reaches out to brush Dean's shoulder.

"He doesn't want to share," she tells the others, giggling, and they all shift closer, the girl and one hulking boy almost as tall as Sam and another one, whip-slim with white-blonde hair. The blonde touches the blood on Dean's chin, drifts a fingertip over Dean's lips.

"So pretty," he whispers. "You belong with us, now." He leans forward, voice so low and intimate Sam can hardly hear him. "Don't you want to play?"

Dean doesn't move, just stands there looking sickly fascinated as the blonde boy touches him and the girl moves closer, leaning forward like she can't resist Dean's mouth, red and full from Sam's rough kisses. Sam stares at painted nails stroking Dean's skin and feels the blood rush behind his eyes. _Mine, mine_ and he's going to do something violent, _needs_ to do something with the possessive rage that makes everything go _red_ and he moves forward without thinking.

A rush of movement as Sam steps up and pulls Dean toward him, feeling cool, smooth skin beneath his fingers, his brother in his arms again, but the blond boy comes, too, arms wound around Dean's neck. Somehow Sam's holding both of them, too busy keeping them standing to react to large, rough hands on his waist as the big one moves behind him, harsh whisper against his ear, "Gonna fuck you, gorgeous, fuck you so hard…".

"Get off me," Sam says, shoving back hard but the hands on his waist are sliding forward, slipping under the waistband of his jeans, and the heavy weight of Dean in his arms is pushing him back against a hard chest and he's starting to get the feeling that this could be really, really bad.

_leave them_

Sam hears it in his head, words like winter and they all freeze, somebody's pornographic Halloween photo. Suddenly, weirdly, Sam is left holding Dean against his chest as the others back away, angry and excited. They are moving toward the mouth of the alley, toward dark figures fanned out beneath the streetlight fifty feet away, slim blades of black standing perfectly still, pale faces limned in shadow.

_God, now what_, Sam wonders, until the one farthest away lifts his head slightly, dark hair falling back from glittering eyes and Sam jumps like he's seen a sculpture move. A single voice this time, whispering like dry leaves.

_come to me_

Soft voice that Sam can _feel_, dragging across his mind with brutal, stunning power.

_beautiful one_

His heart stutters when he feels Dean step forward, starting to pull out of his arms and instinctively he tightens his grasp. _No_. He doesn't even need to think about it, just shoves Dean behind him, feels him stumble but thank God, not move any closer.

"Get in the car," he tells his brother. The dark head suddenly snaps up, sharp gaze burning into them from the end of the alley and there's anger now, from all of them, but mostly from _him_ , the only one who matters.

"Sam?" Dean's voice sounds shaken, confused.

"They can't have you," he says, to Dean, to the still figures in the alley, to the dark one who radiates power and watches Dean so closely. "Get in the car."

Dean doesn't move so Sam turns and pushes his brother ahead of him. They have minutes. Maybe seconds. Rage like a rolling wave coming at them, threatening to pull them back with the undertow, _too late too late too late_ and without thinking Sam simply… pushes back. A nudge with his mind and he feels the dark ones retreat in shock and fear – knows it isn't going to last, but he and Dean are already moving and he's starting the engine and throwing it into gear before Dean even has the door closed.

Only sound in the car is their harsh breathing over the strain of the engine, and after a few seconds he reaches into the back seat to grab a jacket, tossing it at his brother who's shuddering with what Sam hopes to God is just cold.

Speed and darkness and it's half an hour down the highway before he looks over at Dean, hunched into Sam's old blue zip-up and leaning against the window, paper napkin pressed in a crumpled, sodden mass against his neck. All at once Sam is wildly, stupidly glad he grabbed his own jacket to give his brother. Pathetic and hopeless, probably, but God, if he can't hold Dean, then wrapping him in Sam's worn, overwashed cotton seems almost as good.

"What did you do back there?" Deans says, and Sam starts.

"Hey. I thought you were asleep." He drives in silence for a second. "What do you mean?"

"You did something. They let us go."

Sam shifts uncomfortably, remembering voices in his head and what he did to shut them up. "I'm not sure," he says, not wanting to talk about it.

"They were afraid of you."

"How –?"

"I heard them," Dean says softly, looking down at the floorboards. "In the alley. I heard _him_. Calling me." Dean takes a breath. "Never could hear them before."

"Doesn't mean anything," Sam says, convincing himself. "That one – that one's strong. Old, too. Really old, like _centuries_, I bet. He can probably make anyone hear him."

Dean's silence is worrying.

"I was going to go, Sam," Dean says abruptly. "Go to him. I wanted to."

Sam swallows. "But you didn't. You're here." He looks over at Dean's downcast profile. "Hey, it's going to be –"

"Don't fucking tell me everything's going to be fine," Dean says, suddenly harsh. "Remember who you're talking to, here, okay? I know what these things do. They're monsters, killers – and now maybe I'm going to be one of them –"

"Don't over-react! We don't know anything yet." Sam can't listen to this. Won't.

Dean just looks out the window, passive the way Dean never is and that, more than anything else, makes Sam scared, makes him ask, "You okay?"

Dean stirs, pulls the sodden napkin from his neck and looks at it grimly. "Other than maybe bleeding to death? Or, you know… _un_-death?"

Sam glances over and sees blood well up where Dean's pulled the paper away, tiny red tear-drops that swell before slipping down his neck. Sam reaches over and touches the skin below the wound like it's fragile.

"That isn't closing over," he tells Dean softly. "Maybe I should stitch it."

"It's the venom," Dean says, tiredly. "Makes the blood thin so they can drink easier. It's not going to heal right away." Sam feels Dean's throat move as he swallows and then suddenly Dean laughs, short and harsh, and pushes Sam's hand away. "I could probably use a band-aid, though."

Sam ignores him and turns back to the road, runs a shaking hand through his hair and says, "Let's think about this. We need to figure out what to do, Dean, because you know there's nothing in that god-damned book --" He stops, wipes his lips. "We're on our own."

"Yeah, why change things now," Dean says, and Sam probably shouldn't be surprised at how bitter it sounds. He glances at Dean.

"So. Um…do you feel… different?"

Dean crosses his arms and looks away, silent for a moment.

"I don't want to bite you, if that's what you're asking," he says, finally.

"Okay, good," Sam says, encouragingly. "That's good. What about other stuff?"

"Like?"

"Like… the darkness – does it look any different?" He gets a slow blink and a raised brow at that, and he's starting to get annoyed at Dean's impatient expression. "I don't know, Dean! Can you smell colors, or hear the stars sing, or any of that other Anne Rice crap?"

Dean looks out the open window.

"No singing stars, but I'm pretty sure the streetlights are doing 'Chain of Fools'."

"Great. You're a fucking riot, Dean. Glad you think this is funny." Sam could shake him again but he can hear the fear behind the bravado, the sick terror that makes Dean's eyes skate away and god, all he wants to do is take Dean somewhere safe and bright; spread him out on clean white sheets, kiss him until he comes. But fuck. Like Dean will ever let him touch him again.

"They'll pay," Sam whispers brokenly. "I promise you."

Dean seems really interested in the road ahead of them, staring hard at the dark pavement like he can see into the future, and Sam lets him think.

"Kill them all, you said," Dean says, finally, voice way too quiet.

"Yeah. We will. _I_ will. I swear it."

Dean nods, like he didn't expect anything less, and shifts to look at Sam with eyes dark and serious behind the smudged liner. "Good. Because if the Anne Rice crap starts… with me, you know what you need to do."

Sam suddenly feels cold. "Dean –"

"No choice, Sammy," Dean says, sounding way too calm even though Sam knows the pose has got to be total bullshit. "You know that just as much as I do."

Sam is shaking his head, feels his jaw clenching.

"No. No way. Don't you fucking ask me to do that, Dean!"

"You have to, Sam!" Raging back at him for just a second, and then his voice drops again. "You have to. I'm trusting you." Dean's voice is uneven and he's not looking at Sam anymore so Sam barely catches the rest of what Dean says. "At least with this."

Fuck.

The words hang there, painfully, and Dean looks away, like maybe he got lashed with that one, too, and Sam doesn't think he can talk anymore.

_No,_ he thinks.

_Never. Never hurt you again._

Dean wakes up in a motel room with darkness that won't last outside the windows. Face down on the bed where he'd fallen, shoes off, feet bare – Sam must have done that, and thrown the other blanket over him, too. Dean lifts his head and sees that Sam isn't with him in the bed, isn't in the other one, either, and until Dean hears the shower running he can't think.

Didn't leave, Sam _wouldn't_ leave – stupid, empty reassurances he gives himself as he surges up out of bed, because Dean doesn't know what Sam won't do anymore, so he pushes the door of the tiny bathroom open to see if Sam is still with him. Clothes all over the floor, mirror steamed over and the air heavy with heat Dean can almost breathe, and ohthankgod Sam – standing under the spray, arms folded against the tile and head buried against them. Relief and pain in equal portions so Dean lets himself look at Sam, all of him, instead of turning away like he would have two days ago.

So beautiful -- so strong and powerful now – _and he was so little, just little_ Dean thinks, and wonders how he'll ever make the two Sams come together in his mind. Sam's hand against the tile is huge and for a second Dean can feel it closing over his hip, holding him still and he has to turn away.

"Dean?" Sam's voice doesn't sound right, rougher than usual. Dean doesn't look at him, just reaches out to swipe a clean streak on the mirror and meet his own eyes, smeared with steam and cheap eye-shadow and he may as well be staring at a stranger. That can't be him, that guy with blood on his throat and the marks from his brother's teeth on his neck.

"Dean, _please_." He turns at that broken sound to look at Sam; Sam who's cleaned the dark make-up from his face and used the cheap, disposable razor to scrape his skin smooth and perfect again, hair water-slick and pushed back for once so Dean can see the clean lines of his face. He can also see misery to match the grief in his brother's voice and has to wonder if his own eyes look as hollow. Sam's pain held up like a broken toy between them and God damn it if the only thing Dean wants to do is fix it, just like always, but – you did this to us, Sammy, he thinks fiercely. To _me_.

"Too late," he says, too quiet for Sam to hear, maybe, but maybe not because it does something to Sam; he's moving, faster than Dean can react, and suddenly Dean is stumbling forward as Sam drags him into the shower.

"God damn it, Sam, you're getting me all wet –" Sputtering a little under water that isn't hot enough, like Sam carries around his own heat and doesn't need the help. Sam's sodden jacket on his shoulders weighs a ton now and he shrugs it off, Sam's hand the one that flings it onto the floor.

Sam's hands are shaking when he closes them around Dean's bare shoulders, and Dean should push him away but he can't. So he lets Sam stand there with his trembling hands under water that's doing nothing to heat up the chill that's settled into him, that makes him shiver even before Sam leans forward to put his face in Dean's hair.

Soft words he can barely hear, can't understand and he turns his head automatically, lips brushing Sam's ear by mistake to ask, "What was that?"

Sam shakes his head slightly, broken movement and again, "…hate me, now."

Dean exhales sharply, and drops his head, breathes against the slick skin of Sam's shoulder. God. Hate Sam? Angry with him, maybe. Hurt, oh yeah, for sure, but hating Sam never even occurred to him, isn't even _possible_. Dean shifts back to rest his forehead against Sam's and now Dean can see water _tears_ beading on his brother's cheeks. "Oh, shit, Sam."

Sam opens his eyes and lifts his head, so desperate and hopeful, searching for something in Dean's face that Dean isn't sure he can give.

"Close your eyes," Sam says hoarsely, and Dean doesn't have anything left inside that could object. Sam's hands cup his jaw, turn his face into the cascading water and then there are soft fingers on his face and the scent of motel soap making his nose twitch. Sam's hands, just touching him, gentle across his forehead, gliding over his cheekbones, eyelids, the line of his jaw and beneath the curve of his lips.

"Sam," he murmurs, his voice catching on the word because the tenderness in Sam's touch is going to break him, completely and finally. "What are you doing?"

"Just… just getting this junk off your face," Sam says helplessly, rubbing his thumbs softly over Dean's eyelids, so gently that Dean can feel how his hands tremble. Sam's big palms over his cheeks, his jaw, down the sides of his neck, carefully avoiding the wound that Dean can feel burning through his skin; the only warm place on his body, it feels like, except where Sam is touching him.

Dean opens his eyes when Sam brushes his hands over his shoulders, but Sam isn't looking at him, just watching his own hands intently, seriously. Soft and tender, that touch drifting over him, with no purpose beyond comfort and care, and Dean's throat starts to ache. He watches Sam's hands slip down his chest, achingly gentle, slicking over bruises left by Sam's teeth, brushing at them like he can wash them away. Dean can feel his muscles relax beneath Sam's hands, tension washing away with sweat and spit and semen off his skin.

"Oh, God, Sam…"

Sam slips to his knees without looking up, and tugs at the waist of Dean's pants, now soaking and ruined, working at the buttons with difficulty.

"I'm just – I just want this gone, all of it _gone_," Sam says, and God, how Dean wants that, too, ruined leather and smeared make-up and poison in his blood, wants to make it all go away. Before Dean can answer Sam closes his arms around Dean's legs and buries his head against Dean's stomach. Dean's been in enough churches to know penance when he sees it.

_just let me touch you_

He couldn't then, not at the club with Sam on his knees before him, not even when Sam released his bonds; hands too numb, wrists too painful, but there's no belt binding him now. Sam's right here, so Dean just does it, runs his fingers into Sam's soaking hair, over his shoulders and the back of his neck.

_come to me_

Echoes of that voice in Dean's head, a sickening pull, and he wonders what he would have done if it told him to do things to Sam. He makes Sam look up at him, makes himself look back, holds Sam's face hard and God, he's never been able to handle his brother's pain.

"Hey, look at me. It's okay," he tells his brother, smiling weakly, whispering words he's said a thousand times in a thousand different ways whenever Sam was hurt or afraid or sad and Sam just _breaks_, shatters, surges up to hold Dean close. The only thing Dean can do is hold him back, big, warm body in his arms and he doesn't think anything can stop him from putting his lips on Sam's throat, his jaw, his cheek.

"You want this? You and me… like this?" Sam pulls away just a little, just enough to lean his face into Dean's so their lips almost brush. So hopeful, so afraid Dean's going to push him away that Dean simply slides his hands into Sam's hair and pulls him close enough to kiss.

"Yeah… yeah, Sam, want you… just kiss me, okay?"

Oh, God. Sam.

Sam's mouth is desperate and sweet and hungry, tasting him, the tip of his tongue an unconscious tease when he licks over Dean's lips, strokes inside Dean's mouth. Dean hears himself moan, tries to chase down that tongue – God, he wants to suck on it, taste Sam back, but Sam's turned his face away to touch his lips to Dean's wrist.

Grief on Sam's face as he kisses the deep, red marks ringing Dean's arm, soft swipes of his tongue like he can heal them.

"Don't, Sam. It's okay," Dean tells him again, because Sam's bleak remorse _hurts_, and Dean pulls him closer to murmur mindless words of comfort against Sam's temple, to whimper when Sam shifts restlessly and begins mouthing his neck. Nothing close to biting, nothing that could ever mark, just soft kisses over the places Sam's hands have washed clean.

It's sweet and drugging, turning him boneless, but Dean flinches when Sam nears the raw wound on his neck, now closing at last but still angry and throbbing, stealing all the heat in Dean's body. If he thinks about it too much he's afraid he can feel his blood beginning to freeze and that makes him shudder but Sam just holds him closer, skirting the bite to kiss over Dean's collarbone, nuzzle into the other side of his neck with a soft whimper that makes Dean dizzy. Big hands molding his shoulder blades, sliding down his ribs and digging into muscle, sending waves of bliss up his spine.

"Yeah, Sam… God, that's good…"

Dean needs this, doesn't care the fuck why, or for how long he's wanted it and never admitted it to himself, none of that matters – Sam matters, just Sam.

And Sam needs this, too, maybe -- impatient hands tugging at the buttons on Dean's pants again, pulling hard and frustrated until Dean's almost surprised when he feels the material part. Has to laugh, then, because those pants are never coming off, already tight and now soaking wet, they're like part of Dean's body.

"Had to pull me in before I could get undressed, huh?" Dean says; it makes Sam almost-grin, and Dean wonders how long it will be before he sees anything like a smile on Sam's face again.

"Wouldn't have come in here with me if I'd waited," Sam mutters, and then he's soaping his hands again and Dean snorts.

"Not going to work, Sam," he says. "It's not like I have a ring stuck on my… unnnhhh…" Forgets what he was going to say as slick hands slide down into the gap in his pants, slippery grope that's way too brief before Sam's soapy fingers are moving over his hips and beneath the leather, slipping down over his ass. Warm, strong hands cupping him, squeezing him, pulling him close to Sam's hips. Sam's cock.

"See? I can improvise," Sam whispers. "When I'm motivated."

"I take it back," Dean gasps against Sam's ear as Sam's hands plunge lower, peeling the leather down his hips. "It's a fucking _great_ idea."

"Got a lot of them," Sam says, gliding a soapy hand _between_, from the sensitive skin behind his balls to the base of Dean's back and Dean thinks he might be seeing stars. Tries to find Sam's mouth to show him just what he thinks of Sam's brilliant ideas but Sam's sliding down to his knees again, turning Dean to brace his hands against the wall so Sam can pull the soaked leather the rest of the way off Dean's legs. Oh, God, so good to get the sodden leather away from his skin, and when he's finally free of the heavy material he gets Sam's hands again, slick and gentle, smoothing over his calves and thighs, washing Dean's abraded skin, and how can he be so _hard_ just from Sam's hands on his legs?

The press of Sam's teeth on the curve of his ass makes him jump, makes him laugh and he's about to say, "Watch it there, Sammy," but then oh fuck, Sam's mouth -- Sam's _mouth_ – melting heat, right at the center of him, tongue so fucking hot Dean's going to dissolve right there, just melt down the drain, and he feels his knees start to give. Has to lean into the tile just to keep upright and fuck, Sam's amazing at this, freaking _gifted_, finding a liquid rhythm that's shorting out Dean's brain.

"Sam… Sam, I'm gonna come…" And it's true – he could, just from this, just from Sam's tongue on him, and it's embarrassing but it makes Sam moan, and then Dean feels Sam kiss the small of his back and heat from Sam's tongue dragging slowly up his spine as Sam stands. He gets Sam's strong arms around his waist, pulling him close and Sam's smooth, wet chest against his back; Sam's lips mouthing kisses into the nape of his neck and Sam's hard, leaking cock pressed against his hip – completely surrounded by Sam and heat and falling water and Dean realizes that this is the first time they've ever been completely skin to skin, absolutely nothing between them. Closes his eyes and shakes his head, just _feeling_ this.

"What is it?" Sam asks, voice shaky, teeth on Dean's ear and small thrusts against Dean's hip, rubbing the head of his cock lightly over Dean's skin.

"We -- we fit," Dean says, sounding surprised, and he feels Sam smile against his neck, kiss him some more. Sam's hands smoothing down over his abdomen, not stopping until they're slicking over him. closing around him and oh, yeah, Dean thinks he could happily spend eternity fucking Sam's hands.

"Are you – oh, fuck, are you watching us?"

Breathless question and no way he can answer that, no way he can do anything but moan at this point, moan and try not to come like a cannon. Sam's hands are too good, Sam is too good, squeezing and stroking, long, soapy fingers curling over him like the best porn Dean's ever seen. Sam's making noise, too, helpless gasps and he's rubbing over Dean's ass like he's going to die if he can't get more friction. Dean takes pity, reaches back and grabs at Sam's narrow hips, pulling him up close and hard.

Smooth, slick slide against his skin and "Oh… Jesus, Dean –" Orgasm taking Sam by surprise it seems, shuddering cock and hot spurts pumping over Dean's back, Sam seizing against him beneath the pounding water, losing any kind of rhythm at all but that's okay because Dean turns and pushes Sam into the tile.

Kisses him hungrily, touches him everywhere -- gorgeous mouth and gorgeous body and all _his_, his to touch and taste, hard muscle and smooth skin and blood rushing hot and sweet beneath. Gorgeous ass Dean can't get enough of touching, Sam pliant and melting beneath his fingers, turning to the wall and just _letting_ him, letting Dean sink deep inside, turning everything into heat and pulse and blinding pleasure, and if this kills him, burns him into nothing, it will be so fucking worth it.

Afterward, Sam barely gives him time to dry off. Rough towel over his skin and they're both still damp when Sam drags him into bed, pulls him close so they can tangle together in cool, soap-scented sheets where everything is Sam and skin and shared breath. Sam holds him like Dean is going to slip away and that's fine with Dean because he can hold on, too, has spent most of his life trying to hold on, and fuck, maybe this time it will work.

"We'll sleep for a few hours," Sam tells him. "Then head up toward Stanford."

"Stanford?" Dean manages to ask, ends up mostly yawning instead.

Sam's quiet for a second. "When I was at school I took a class on the occult. Easy A, you know?" Sam adds defensively when Dean raises his eyebrows. "But – I was surprised. We're not the only ones who have experience with this stuff."

Dean leans back to look at him, feels himself start to grin. "Did a little moonlighting up at college, Sam? And here I thought you wanted to get away from it all."

Sam shifts, rubs his cheek against the pillow. "Look, Dad's book's for shit at this point. We need some outside help, and there's someone at school who I think we can talk to about this."

This. Meaning his brother.

Lestat.

Dean closes his eyes.

"Okay, Stanford, fine. Whatever. If I haven't developed a sun allergy by then." Because Dean can feel it coming -- dawn, pressing against the windows behind the thick curtains, against his eyelids.

"Yeah, well, then you can ride in the trunk." Brittle laughter in Sam's voice and Dean has to smile a little, too, has to lean into him a little more.

"This doesn't fucking scare you?" Dean asks, quietly so he sounds calmer than he feels.

"Yeah, sure it does," Sam says, sounding matter-of-fact. "When has that ever mattered? Still doesn't." Grown-up Sam voice Dean hasn't heard before, and maybe now he can make Sam understand.

"Sam. I think we should come up with some kind of a plan – you know, just in case --.""

Sam isn't fooled by his reasonable tone and cuts him off with a hard kiss.

"Don't say it. Don't ask me again. That's never happening."

Dean sighs and leans his forehead into Sam's shoulder. He's too God-damned tired to fight. Too tired to think about how wrong it is that they've already driven 300 miles away from the things they need to kill, that they're planning to _hide_. To think about why neither of them has even once suggested calling Dad. Maybe for once he can be the kind of guy who doesn't argue.

And who lets his brother kiss him until he falls asleep.

Jesus.

"This is so fucked up, Sammy."

Soft lips on his, softer whisper right before he drops off to the slow beat of Sam's heart.

"I don't care."

The smell of scrambled eggs cooking is going to make Dean sick. No place should serve breakfast at night, even if he did just wake up and the orange of the sky outside the diner windows could be dawn if he pretends. The light makes his eyes hurt.

"Completely useless crap," Sam says, listlessly flipping through Dad's book. He grabs his thick coffee mug and looks at Dean over the edge before he drinks. "You're not eating. Aren't you hungry?"

Dean looks down at his plate. "I don't eat… waffles."

"Okay, for the record? The vampire jokes are going to get old fast. And that movie sucked." Sam stirs at his eggs. "Just eat something."

"Coffee, hon?" Dean jumps, thinks he should probably answer the woman standing next to their table but he's studying her hand instead, holding the coffee-pot out to him with the tendons in her arm distended, pale trace of veins on the inside of her wrist and if he listens close he thinks he can hear the soft rush of blood through them.

Oh, hell.

"You want coffee?" she asks again, then turns to Sam. "Is he okay?"

"Fine," Sam says, trying out a smile. "He's fine. Coffee would be great."

Dean watches her fill their cups and walk away and feels Sam bump his leg beneath the table.

"What's wrong with you?" Sam asks, and Dean can't blame him for being irritated, blames himself for making Sam look so grim and worried, even before he knows about Dean's new fascination with strangers' circulatory systems. Dean decides not to share.

"Look, I'm sorry it was hard to wake me up, okay? I know you wanted to get on the road hours ago but we'll just have to make up the time tonight." Dean brushes his calf against Sam's leg in apology, wishes they were somewhere else so he could take Sam in his arms.

"Hard to wake you up?" Sam says, staring at him blankly. "I tried for _four_ hours, Dean. I didn't know what to do! It was like you were in a coma or --."

"Dead?" Dean asks, remembering opening his eyes to see Sam, panicked and pale, slamming his cell phone shut and rushing toward the bed in relief, dropping to his knees and putting one hand in Dean's hair. Dean can still feel Sam's hand gripping tight, can still feel pressure in his chest slowly easing away with the sun's descent behind the curtains.

"No." Sam says, stubborn set to his mouth and moving his leg closer to Dean's, an unconsciously protective gesture to match his words. "That stuff in your blood is making you tired. That's all."

"I was waiting for the freaking sun to set, you mean."

Sam rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Even if that's true, you didn't wake up trying to rip my throat out, either. I'm going to take that as a good sign."

"I look different," Dean says, feeling sullen, remembering the unfamiliar face in the mirror that he turned away from before he could really get a good look.

Sam looks up briefly, glimpse of dark eyes under the soft fringe of his hair and then his gaze skates away. "No, you don't."

"Everyone's staring at me."

"They're not –" Sam rubs his mouth and lowers his voice. "They're not staring. Now will you eat something so we can get on the road before your fan club starts trying to track you down?"

Dean looks down at his plate and feels his stomach heave, once, horribly, and drops his fork onto the plate.

"Yeah, about that," Dean says, trying to get his nausea under control, trying to ignore the thud of pain in his chest at what he's about to say. "I'm thinking… maybe we should split up."

Sam seems at a loss. "What the fuck are you talking about? Where would you go?"

"Away. Somewhere else." Dean gestures at the window, vaguely indicating the rest of the country where Sam is not. "I can drop you at Stanford –."

"Why?" Sam interrupts, and he's starting to sound angry and frightened.

"Well, I don't know, Sam, maybe because any second now I might turn into a blood-sucking monster?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, not this again –" Dean puts up a hand.

"We've already established that you're not going to put a stake through my heart. Fine, you can't kill me, I get that. But how do I know…" Has to get his voice under control before he can continue, "How do I know I'm not going to try to hurt you?" Worst thing Dean can imagine, nagging fear that grips his throat and he can't even look at Sam when he says it.

"You won't." Stubborn glare.

"Really. You know this."

"I know this," Sam assures him. "You wouldn't. You'd _never_ hurt me."

So unshakably certain and Dean rubs his hands over his face tiredly. "I really want to believe that, dude, but we don't know what I'll be capable of…"

Sam isn't listening, shaking his head and stabbing at the eggs on his plate with recrimination.

"You and Dad, you're both completely –"

"Dad?" Dean says, looking up. "That's who you were talking to earlier?" Sam immediately looks hunted.

"You wouldn't wake up," Sam says, sounding chagrined. "No matter what I did. I didn't know what to do, so…"

"It's okay," Dean says, trying not to feel betrayed. "I'm sorry I scared you."

"No, Dean, I freaked out and –"

"Called Dad. I got that part." He tries to take a sip of coffee – it's a little better than the food, but not much. "We should have done it right away, probably." He stares down into his mug. "So what did he say?"

"Nothing helpful," Sam mutters, sounding bitter, and of course, Dean didn't really need to ask, didn't need to hear how quickly their father had written him off.

come to me

Soft whisper, sense of empty arms waiting for him, and Dean shakes his head.

"He told you the same thing I did, didn't he? He told you to get away from me."

"And I told him the same thing I'm telling you -- that's not fucking happening!" Sam's looking murderous, and Dean takes a breath.

"No, he's right. He's afraid I'm going to hurt you."

"Yeah, and he's as nuts as you are. You'd never hurt me," Sam says again, grasping Dean's hand hard, looking at him and there's so much trust there, such earnest, unshaking faith that Dean has to swallow before he can talk.

"No," he says softly, brushing a fingertip slowly over the pulse in Sam's wrist. "I never would." He makes it a promise, a vow to Sam and to himself and he lets himself hang onto Sam until the thought of holding hands with his brother in a diner outweighs his need for Sam's reassurance.

"So we go to Stanford," Sam says when Dean lets go, flipping Dad's notebook closed and standing up. "I'll go put some gas in the car."

"Then what?" Dean asks. "After Stanford?"

And then Sam goes still and there's silence all around, it seems.

For a second it isn't his brother Dean sees – there's something more, something bright and blinding and not-Sam behind his brother's face and all Dean can do is stare.

"They're afraid of me," Sam says quietly, carefully. "They should be." He looks down at the check. "You got this?"

Dean just nods. Clears his throat.

"I'm going to hit the john. I'll catch up."

Dean waits until Sam's out the door before he stumbles to his feet, lurching toward the back of the diner. The bathroom is starkly bright, cheerfully mocking the stuttering pound of his heart as Dean leans over the sink to splash water on his face, looks up dripping water into his collar. He's feeling shakily relieved to actually see his reflection until he really gets a good look at himself.

What the _fuck_.

He's gotten used to looking at his face in pieces; hair combed, teeth brushed, skin shaved close, but never at his whole face if he could help it. He stopped looking a long time ago, once he realized that his father watched him closer than he watched Sam, pushed him harder, protective and ashamed at the same time of his son who looked like an advertisement for sex. So much easier to cut his hair short so he could run one hand through it and be done, easier to shave in the shower and brush his teeth while keeping his eyes fixed on the water swirling down the sink.

_waiting for you_

But now he has to look, trying to recognize a face as pale as the white t-shirt he's wearing, the bones beneath more defined, _refined_ somehow, with the only color coming from eyes green and glittering in the fluorescent light and lips deep red like he's wearing more of that stupid gloss.

And suddenly it's all clear to Dean, clear as the beacon of light inside his brother and the voices inside his head; Sam's out in the parking lot thinking he's going to take Dean somewhere safe and leave him there, go back alone to kill the things that hurt his brother. Sam thinks it's his fault; that he started this mess with that first kiss in the club but Dean knows better – they've been heading toward this ever since fate took everything else away and left them each other. Left him nothing but Sam -- his responsibility and his tormentor, his brother and his savior and the goddamned love of his life.

_want you_

There's something other in Sam, yeah, but no denying it now, there's something in him, too; something cold and growing that can hear the whispers of the night-creatures calling to him from hundreds of miles away, if he listens. Something that can see what they see when they look at Sam. He stares into the mirror.

_beautiful one_

And yeah, he'd stopped looking at himself, but that never stopped him from using it, taking advantage of the things people wanted to do to him to make them do things _for_ him instead. Drinks in bars when he was broke and safe places for him and Sam to sleep even when he wasn't; cigarettes and gas money, a jump for the car battery. Using his looks got him fed and got him laid and he learned that no one ever questioned the false name on his credit cards when he smiled. He took care of himself and took care of Sam and he can still do that, will _always_ do that, no matter what's happening to him now.

Kill them all, Sam said. In pain and blood and fire. Dean grins fiercely at his reflection, runs his tongue over his teeth, careful not to cut himself.

It's a place to start.

Too easy to slip out the back of the diner, stick to the shadows and avoid the brightly lit station where Sam is pumping gas. Stops to look at him one more time. _Keep you safe_, he thinks.

Easier still to find what he's looking for, three girls on their way back to UCLA, stopped for bottled water and candy bars. He stops just outside their range of vision and just listens; laughter, conversation, music on the radio. Three separate heartbeats.

They go still when he walks up to them, instantly wary of strangers in parking lots, miles from home, but he hunches his shoulders, hands in his pockets, and stops a good six feet away.

"You need something?" The driver asks, too polite to tell him to fuck off. He turns his face up into the light and smiles.

"Actually… I could use a ride."


End file.
